Three Wishes

by Liane Moriarty

  "Who is this?" Like Frankenstein's monster coming to life, Gemma suddenly sat bolt upright.

  "How many of us did you stand up last night? Is this like a regular Friday night thing for you?"

  "Oh my God! You're the locksmith!"

  She threw back her quilt and jumped out of bed, the phone to her ear. She bunched back her fringe with one hand. How could this have happened?

  "I can't believe I forgot! That is so rude. So bad-mannered. I am so sorry. I had a family crisis. It was exciting, my sister turned into a psychotic stalker. Still, that's no excuse."

  "Keep going."

  "I feel terrible. Really."

  She really did feel terrible. Not just because of hurting the locksmith's feelings but because if she could so completely forget something like that, something she was quite looking forward to, then who knows what else she'd forgotten in her life? Perhaps she'd forgotten other things and never remembered she'd forgotten them. Good things. Like lottery wins. Job offers. It was frightening.

  "You should feel terrible," said the locksmith. "How do you plan to redeem yourself?"

  Gemma sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed and pulled her T-shirt over her knees. He sounded quite sexy and stern. Perhaps she should make a habit of standing up first dates.

  "Oh, redemption," she said. "I'm a Catholic, we're right into it. What shall I do? Buy you breakfast?"

  "No. I think you should cook me breakfast. Breakfast for you. Lunch for me. Brunch for the two of us. You can tell me all about your psychotic sister."

  "I would, I really would, but I don't cook. So we'll have to think of something else."

  "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

  Gemma let her T-shirt spring back from her knees and cuddled them to her with pleasure.

  "I don't cook," she repeated. "My sisters cook."

  "Your sisters didn't stand me up."

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  Well! He sounded nice!

  Of course, they always did in the beginning.

  Lyn believed that Gemma was addicted to a chemical called phenylethylamine. This was the chemical that flooded divinely through your body when you fell in love. Gemma had been in exactly fourteen relationships over the last ten years (Lyn was keeping count), and according to Lyn, it was starting to get beyond a joke, in fact it was becoming scary. Gemma was obviously breaking up with these perfectly nice men whenever the relationship moved from Stage 1--attraction--to Stage 2--intimacy--because of her addiction.

  The good thing was that you could also get phenylethylamine from chocolate. Lyn said Gemma should therefore eat more chocolate and settle into a long-term committed loving relationship in Stage 3.

  Gemma wondered what her chances were of reaching Stage 3 with--

  With...?

  What the hell was his name?

  Her mind was quite blank.

  There was a peculiar significance to it, she knew that.

  She remembered picking up her keys from the kitchen table and jangling them in a maternal "You silly things" fashion, as if it was their fault they'd got locked in the house. The locksmith smiled at her. He smiled straight into her eyes because he was exactly her height.

  Gemma and her sisters had a strict "nothing under six feet" policy, but looking into this man's eyes had been rather pleasant, slightly shocking in fact, as if they were lying in bed together. Maybe, she thought, it was time for a change of policy.

  "It's funny how people always want to show me the keys they've locked in their houses," he said.

  His head was so closely shaven it was almost bald. He had wide shoulders, a slightly crooked nose, and...extraordinarily long eyelashes. They would have made a handsome man look effeminate. They made the locksmith a tiny bit beautiful.

  Gemma said, "You have the most amazing eyelashes."

  It was a bad habit of hers, complimenting strangers on their physical attributes. She once told a woman in an elevator that she had an especially lovely collarbone. The woman had looked panic-stricken and had begun jabbing at the elevator buttons.

  "I know," said the locksmith. "I'm surprised you took so long to mention them." Gemma burst into surprised laughter as he leaned forward and furiously batted his eyelashes at her. Then he laughed too. He had the deep, comforting belly laugh of a much larger man. It made her laugh even more.

  She was still chortling away when he told her his name and asked if he could take her out to dinner that Friday night.

  His name was significant in a vaguely comical sort of way. Something made her think, well, I'll remember that name, ha ha. And there was also something that was just a tiny bit sad about it. Just a faint, delicate shadow of sadness. It was very odd. What could it be? What name could be funny and sad all at once? How fascinating! She couldn't wait to remember it.

  She looked around her room for inspiration. The sun was streaming through the open window, a breeze gently lifting and dropping a faded lace curtain. It had been only a couple of weeks, but it looked like this could be one of her favorite houses. The solid, mahogany furniture seemed patient and wise and the clutter-filled drawers and shelves felt friendly and nonthreatening.

  She'd just finished two months in a funky inner-city apartment. All that funkiness had started to give her a headache. Here, in the settled leafy suburbia of Hunters Hill, she would be serene and meditative. She might even learn to cook.

  Gemma was a house-sitter. She had a bold, boxed ad in the Sydney House-Sitter's Directory:

  Single woman in her thirties with excellent references. Very responsible. Extremely security conscious. I take house-sitting seriously! Walk back in the door and feel like you've only been gone for five minutes! Your home, your pets, and your plants will receive my tender loving care!

  This house belonged to the Penthursts, retired doctors, who were traveling around Europe for a year. Dr. and Dr. Penthurst, Mary and Don, had taken a liking to Gemma and had already sent her a postcard. "How are my African violets?" wrote Dr. Don from Venice.

  Dr. Don had a collection of six African violets with fat, velvety leaves. "You need to talk to them for at least twenty minutes a day," he had told her. "You probably think I'm dotty, but it works. It's documented! It's on the Net! One theory is that it's the carbon dioxide. Anyway. Just have a little chat with them. Doesn't matter what you say."

  "Just water them, dear," said Dr. Mary, out of his hearing.

  "Oh no," said Gemma. "Your house has to feel as if you're still here."

  Now she walked up to the row of pots on the windowsill and caressed their leaves. She called them all Violet, her own private joke. "What was that locksmith's name? Mmmm? Violet? Any ideas? What about you, Violet? Now, Violet, I bet you remember!"

  The Violets were silent, as stumped as she was.

  Gemma sat back down the bed and looked at her framed family photos on the bedside table. They were the only personal items she displayed when she was house-sitting. Otherwise she lived in their houses exactly as the owners left them.

  Her photo collection was an eclectic mix, skidding without logic through the generations. There was her father grinning with evil black-and-white innocence at age five, next to a furious fifteen-year-old Cat, one obscene finger stuck up at the photographer. (Really, Gemma, why would anyone even keep such a dreadful photo, said their mother, let alone put it on public display? I'll give you fifty bucks for it, said Dan. Look at that chick! Nobody messes with my wife.)

  Next to the photo of Cat was an old black-and-white one of their mother at around the same age. She was on a beach, her arm slung with casual abandon over her best friend's shoulder. It looked like they'd just come out of the water and collapsed on the sand. Maxine was smiling radiantly at the camera, her hair plastered to her forehead. It was hard to imagine that girl growing up into the immaculately irritable Maxine Kettle.

  Gemma looked at the photo of her mother and the locksmith's name reappeared right where she'd left it.

  Charlie. Of course it was Charlie
. What a relief.

  Charlie was a joke name because it was the name of Mum's boyfriend before Dad. The one she would have married, the one she should have married. Charlie belonged to the life their mother would have had if her ovaries hadn't betrayed her.

  There were photos of him in the old albums from Maxine's nineteenth birthday. He was a smiley nerd with protruding teeth. Thank God you didn't marry him, we would have got those teeth, Gemma and her sisters told their mother. Maxine sniffed and looked at them with narrowed eyes, as if imagining the quiet, tasteful daughters she would have had (one by one, of course!) if she'd married Charlie Edwards.

  So that's why the locksmith's name was funny. But why was it sad?

  "Surely I don't feel sorry for you, Mum," said Gemma to her mother's photo. Maxine smiled back at her and Gemma pressed her face right up close to the photo. "Do I? Why would I?"

  Enough! It was time to think about new Charlie. Charlie with the long eyelashes and perfectly adequate teeth! Charlie who was on his way over right now with the erroneous expectation of home-cooked food.

  Gemma lay back down on the Penthursts' wonderfully comfortable king-sized bed and stretched luxuriously.

  What could she possibly cook for her redemption breakfast? The answer was nothing of course. She didn't even have a loaf of bread in the house.

  Twenty minutes later she woke with a start and a voice in her ear. "You're starting to seem a little unreliable."

  She opened her eyes. A man was squatting by her bed, large hands dangling over skinny legs in blue jeans.

  "How did you get in?" she asked, sleepily. He rolled his eyes. "Oh. Of course." Gemma lifted her arms above her head and yawned. She met his eyes and her yawn turned into a laugh of pleasure halfway through.

  "Hello there, Charlie."

  "Hello there, Gemma. Where's my lunch?"

  The eyelashes were just as she remembered them.

  To: Gemma Kettle

  From: Gwen Kettle

  Subject: Hello darling

  Dearest Gemma,

  Frank has wired me up to the World Wide Internet. It took him a long time and he swore a lot, as you can imagine. I think we are right now. I am sending each of you an e-letter. How are you? How is your hay fever? Better I hope. Frank says that you invest in shares on your computer and that you are doing very well. Congratulations, darling, and well done to you. I told Beverly next door about it but she did not believe me. She is a very annoying woman. With much love, your Nana

  To: Gwen Kettle

  From: Gemma Kettle

  Subject: NANA IN CYBERSPACE! HELLO!

  NANA!

  CONGRATULATIONS and well done to you too! Dad never mentioned he was helping you get on the Internet and I was so excited to see your e-mail pop up. We can e-mail all the time now! It's true that I buy stocks on the Net and it's great fun, just like playing the pokies at the club, only not so many jackpots! I'll show you how. (It would be a good idea not to mention this to Mum if you are talking to her.) Beverly next door is a complete twit.

  I am giving serious consideration to a new boyfriend. We had breakfast together this morning. (Now don't get any wrong ideas, please, Nana. It wasn't because he stayed the night.)

  He is a locksmith. That could be handy, couldn't it? For example, if you needed your locks changed at any time. (Do you? How is security at your place?) He drives a motorbike and his family is Italian. Sexy, hey? I might bring him over to visit soon and you can tell me what you think.

  Love from Gemma

  "So, when do you think I should have sex with my locksmith?"

  It was that same night, and Gemma lay immersed to her neck in a peachy-smelling bubble bath, talking to Lyn on the portable phone. She had turned the lights out and the bathroom was lit by dozens of perfumed, flickering tea-candles. A box of funny-shaped chocolates from Cat's work was in convenient reach. (Cat kept her in constant supply of rejected Hollingdale chocolates. It was a truly tragic occupational hazard that Cat was now repulsed by even the smell of chocolate.)

  The Penthursts had a gigantic claw-foot bathtub, which was wonderful, although it did remind Gemma of those movie scenes where the woman dreamily (so foolishly!) runs an extremely steamy bath while a knife-clutching villain creeps up the stairs. To ensure this didn't happen, she thought about it a lot. As an added security measure, she took the phone with her into the bath and telephoned no-nonsense people like her sisters and her mother.

  "I'm thinking, controversially, the fourth date. Normally, I succumb on the third date." She lifted a foamy leg and watched the froth sliding back into the steaming water. "What do you think?"

  Lyn's voice burst forth from the portable phone, spoiling the ambience quite considerably. "I don't know and I don't care," she said with an irritable clatter of crockery. Lyn always seemed to be packing or unpacking a dishwasher when she spoke on the phone. "I've already got one teenager in my life, thanks very much."

  "Oh."

  Gemma's leg splashed down into the water as she hurriedly tried to think of a breezy new topic of conversation to demonstrate that her feelings weren't hurt.

  "For God's sake, Gemma, why do you always have to be so bloody sensitive?"

  Too late.

  "All I said was oh."

  "I've got Maddie whining. I've got Michael stressed. I've got Kara threatening to sue me. I've got Christmas orders flooding in and staff flooding out. What do you expect?"

  "I don't expect anything. It was just, I don't know, idle chat."

  "I don't have time for idle chat. Have you talked to Cat since Friday's drama?"

  "Yes," Gemma relaxed again. "Dan wants them to try counseling."

  "He's a fuckwit."

  That was strong language for Lyn.

  "Yes, he is," said Gemma. "But only a temporary fuckwit, don't you think? They'll work it out. Dan just made a stupid mistake."

  "I've always hated him."

  A tidal wave of bubbles went flying over the side of the bath as Gemma sat up straight.

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really."

  "I thought we all loved Dan!" Gemma felt slightly sick.

  "It's not a group decision who we like and don't like."

  "Yes, O.K., but I didn't know we--I mean you--felt that way."

  "I have to go." Lyn's voice softened and a saucepan banged. "The locksmith sounds really lovely. Sleep with him whenever it feels right. Try not to break his heart. And don't take any notice of me. I'm just tired. I need more iron."

  Gemma put the phone on the wet bathroom floor and used her big toe to dislodge the plug just slightly so she could put more hot water in. She selected a large warped strawberry cream.

  Of course she was angry with Dan. She was furious with him. She wanted to punch him in the nose. She was looking forward to publicly shaming him on Christmas Day by not giving him a present. Not even a scratch 'n' win card.

  But the cold hatred in Lyn's voice was way beyond what Gemma was feeling.

  It made her feel left out.

  She thought about Friday and pulling up behind Cat's blue Honda. For some reason it had wrenched Gemma's heart to see the lone little car sitting on the side of the road outside some strange block of units.

  Lyn turned off the ignition with a grim flick of her wrist.

  "This is ridiculous."

  Together they walked over to Cat's car and tapped on the driver's window.

  Cat wound down the window. "Get in, get in!"

  Gemma hopped in the backseat, while Lyn went around to the front. There were spots of feverish color on Cat's cheeks. "This is fun, isn't it?" Her eyes were bright.

  "Nope," said Lyn.

  "Yep," said Gemma.

  "It's O.K. It's fine. I'm not going to talk to her," said Cat. "I just have to see what she looks like. I can't bear not knowing what she looks like."

  "Apart from the weirdness of this," said Lyn. "wouldn't this girl be at work?"

  "Oh no, she's too young for work, Lyn!" said Cat. "She's studying la
w. Smart, as well as attractive. My husband doesn't have one-night stands with just anybody! Anyway, I've worked out her timetable. She had a lecture first thing and then nothing for the rest of the day."

  "Oh. My. God." Lyn twisted around in her seat to look at Cat.

  Cat turned and looked at her fiercely. "What's your problem?"

  Gemma looked fondly at their identical profiles. "There's someone coming," she said.

  Lyn and Cat turned their heads and Cat made a strangled noise. A girl was walking toward the car. She had long swinging dark hair and a knapsack.

  "Is it her?" A bubble of schoolgirl hysteria was expanding in Gemma's chest. "Should we hide?"

  "Yep, that's her," said Cat. She sat very still, looking straight ahead at the girl as she got closer and closer to the car. "That's Angela."

  "How do you know?" whispered Lyn, beginning to sink lower in her seat.

  "I made Dan describe her to me," said Cat. "I'm positive."

  She put her hand on the door handle. "I'm going to talk to her."

  "No!"

  Lyn and Gemma both made a frantic grab for her arm as Cat purposefully got out of the car, slamming the door behind her.

  Lyn put her face in her hands. "I can't watch."

  Gemma stared, transfixed, as the two women got closer to each other.

  "Should we go after her?"

  "Just tell me if she starts to assault her," said Lyn in a muffled voice.

  "She's walking up to her," said Gemma. "The girl's smiling at her."

  Lyn took her face out of her hands and together they watched the girl talking to Cat. She was talking animatedly and pointing up the street, past the car, making twisting directions with her hands. Cat was nodding her head. After a couple of seconds and more pointing and head nodding, Cat turned around and began walking back to the car. Her face was impassive. She opened the car door and got back in behind the driver's seat. The three of them sat in silence.

  Cat leaned forward and rested her forehead against the top of the steering wheel.

  Lyn said, "It probably wasn't even her."

  Gemma said, "She wasn't at all pretty," and then all three of them jumped at a sudden, urgent rapping on Cat's window. It was the girl, smiling, her head on one side as she bent down toward the car.

  Oh dear, thought Gemma, holding her breath. She's gorgeous.

  Cat clumsily wound down the window.